Then I Just Tuned It Out

I simply, tuned it out.

#. January 15, 2021

#-1. Athens, Georgia, USA

#-2. University of Georgia

#-3. Vandiver Hall, Room 607

By the time the weekend had passed and I came back to my senses, my bank account held roughly $14.4 million.

That would have been enough to change my life entirely. What I chose instead was to keep everything exactly as it was.

"You really should start living a little more comfortably now."

First things first, though — I had to get through this phone call.

"I'm not asking you to quit the restaurant. This is just a chance to renovate it, and maybe build us a new house. You could leave the bank too, Dad, and we'd all live together in Paia. Yes. There's really nothing to feel burdened about. I'm going to keep making money for a long time. And I have no intention of spending it only on myself. Yes. Yes, I know. Got it, Mom. Just think it over. Love you. Yes, I'll eat well. Okay, bye."

This morning, I had sent my mother $10 million.

She woke up, checked her account, and nearly had a heart attack — sent me a flurry of messages, then called the moment she came back to the dorm at lunch, and we'd been on the phone ever since.

Fortunately, Mom wasn't nearly as stubborn as I'd feared. I just hoped she'd accept it with an easy heart.

Bzzt—

Starting the Monday after the National Championship and lasting about two weeks, the university signs that year's recruiting class to their letters of intent. Since this process can only happen on campus, I'd been getting called over to Butts-Mehre almost daily since yesterday.

Oh. And one more thing.

Stetson Bennett and Carson Beck had both entered the Transfer Portal and were officially leaving the team. A few other guys were weighing transfers too, and Coach Smart had made it clear he had no intention of standing in their way. Anyone wanting to transfer had to decide by the end of March at the latest, or they wouldn't be eligible to play next season.

And as always, where people leave, others arrive — so since yesterday, a fresh line of signees had been putting pen to paper on their letters to come to Georgia.

Knock knock—

"Come on in—"

Click.

I opened the door and stepped into the coach's office. Inside stood a big kid in clothes completely wrong for the season — one look told you he came from somewhere warm. The moment he saw me, he got up from his chair, broke into a wide grin, and stuck out his hand first.

"Hey. I'm Brock Bowers."

"Dwayne Moi Stone. Good to meet you."

"Whoa. Meeting a star in the flesh."

"Star, nothing. Where you from? Cali? Florida?"

"California. Napa. How'd you know?"

"Your clothes."

"Haha. That obvious, huh?"

Coach Smart watched the two of us hit it off instantly with an amused smile, then offered to have me show the new guy around the facilities. I nodded and led Brock Bowers straight out the door — first stop, the Players' Lounge.

That's where he'd be spending most of his time, after all.

"Snacks are over here, drinks are in that fridge. Help yourself to whatever you want."

"Whoa — seriously?"

"Yup. And see the cereals over there? Anything with a name label on it is personal. Everything else is communal — if you just need a quick meal, grab the unlabeled stuff. Milk's in the fridge. There's a smoothie bar over that way too, but I'll introduce you to that later. Come on."

The next place I took Brock was the House of Payne.

There was a reason this came first.

Those names on the wall. That number — 2020. The newest one, added just four days ago, was a reminder of what we'd done in the National Championship.

"You look at that and tell yourself: I want to hang a 2021 up there next to it. You know what that means, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. Of course I do."

"Goals matter."

We were partway through the rest of the House of Payne when a big body lumbered over from one side.

Darnell Washington.

"Yo."

"Yo, D. What's good?"

When I introduced Brock Bowers as the guy who'd be lining up at tight end next year, Darnell cracked a joke about how they'd be rivals, so no way they'd get along.

Even though he'd end up closer to the kid than anyone.

Darnell had put up a hell of a freshman season himself. His receptions and touchdowns weren't eye-popping, but as a blocking tight end he'd given this team a ton.

"So what type are you?"

"Me? Versatile."

"Oh — cocky. I like it. But for real, though. What's your game?"

Kitty, who'd basically been playing slot receiver while starting at tight end, was declaring for this year's NFL Draft. Once he was gone, the only dependable tight ends left would be Darnell and John FitzPatrick — and both were far more valuable as run blockers than as efficient receiving options.

Coach Smart obviously knew this and had brought the kid in because of it, I figured. But some things a man had to hear from his own mouth.

I was the quarterback, after all.

I had to build that connection.

"Honestly? I feel more comfortable in the slot."

"Love that. It's exactly what this team needs."

"You think I'll start?"

"Well — that depends on what you do this summer, doesn't it?"

"Fair. Stupid question."

"Kukkukku. Come on, I'll show you the rest."

"Yeah."

After that I walked him through the arcade room, as it was called, then the cafeteria, and made him trade greetings with every single guy who walked past while we ate lunch together. Afterward came the weight facility, the meeting rooms, the equipment room — and finally, the locker room.

"Whoaaa."

I stood beside Brock, whose jaw had hit the floor, and gave his shoulder a knowing pat.

Come to think of it, last year — same reaction. The locker room got me too.

"Picture it. Your nameplate goes up right here."

"Whoa — okay. I really, really gotta work my ass off."

"Damn Right."

A season of change had begun with the spring semester. What would we look like by fall?

God, I couldn't wait to find out.

#. January 23, 2021

#-1. Atlanta, Georgia, USA

#-2. FUGO Studios

The world proved extremely sensitive to any topic touching on how I made my money. And my response to all of it was simple: ignore it. I just tuned it out.

"You want me to pick from these?"

"Yes. Consider it a gift."

"Nice."

Today, Saturday, I'd come into Atlanta early in the morning. The purpose: an ad shoot. The sponsor was Toyota. Apparently they'd pitched the agency right after the Heisman ceremony, and today was the shoot.

"Then take your time picking."

"Yes, sir."

The female executive, who looked fairly senior, went off somewhere, and I browsed the vehicles alongside Leigh Steinberg. I'd be signing a two-year sponsorship with Toyota — $2.5 million a year, with the condition that I drive a Toyota day to day.

Toyota does have an expensive line, the Supra, but that wasn't on the table. The best-looking option was the J200.

The SUV they call the Land Cruiser.

"An outstanding choice."

"You think?"

"You've got a good eye, son."

Well — of course I had a good eye.

I didn't live all these years for nothing.

When I told the rep the J200 was my pick, she explained that a new model would launch this May, so they'd deliver one to my dorm then. Until then I was free to keep driving what I already had — I'd just swap cars in May. Simple and convenient. Loved it.

"Shall we get started, then?"

"Yes, sir."

I'd done ad shoots in my past life too — starting right after my first Super Bowl win. So from makeup through the shoot itself, I wrapped everything up quickly and smoothly, no awkwardness at all. Watching me work, people kept saying things like:

"He was born for this."

"A born star."

Hmm. That part was a little cringe-inducing, I'll admit.

Still, I felt pretty good.

"After fees and taxes, it'll hit your account in about two weeks."

"Yes, sir."

When the shoot wrapped, I had lunch with Leigh Steinberg and we talked over one thing and another. The agency was currently focused on keeping my image clean despite the enormous sums I was pulling in, and working to keep up a steady stream of COVID-related outreach.

Last week's $100,000 donation was part of that; right now they were planning a weekend free-meal program for people who'd lost their jobs. They'd be preparing boxed meals and delivering them door to door.

Setting up distribution points in parks or empty lots risked mass COVID infections — worse than doing nothing at all — and there was the added concern of turning public opinion even uglier. Apparently they were in talks with a restaurant in Athens that was reasonably well known for its food but might have to shut down for good. I left the whole thing entirely to the agency.

For things like this, you just do what you're told. All I needed to know was what was being done.

"Now then. One more matter."

"?"

"Shall we talk about your, ah, relationships with women?"

"You didn't seriously run a background check on me, did you?"

"If it offends you, I'll apologize — but we do need to know what we know. Have you ever used drugs to facilitate sex?"

"Excuse me?! HELL NO!!"

The uncomfortable questions kept coming after that — but honestly, they were questions I'd asked plenty of times myself, in another life.

"You've been with at most three at a time?"

"Yes. Two or three occasions."

"Any bad breakups?"

"I don't think so."

"How many partners total?"

"Hmm... roughly a dozen and change, I'd guess."

It was only natural for an agency to check and double-check sensitive issues like this. Heads stay cool that way. I understood completely.

Every sponsorship contract I'd signed so far — and every one still to come — would contain clauses covering "moral turpitude" and the like. If my love life were a mess, those terms would have to be negotiated. The agency would push as hard as possible to strip them out.

That's why they were asking.

"Anyone you're seriously seeing?"

"Hm — if anything, I've been winding things down lately."

"Why is that?"

"Turns out I liked one of them more than I meant to."

"...The girl named Emmeline?"

"Damn — you really do know a lot, don't you?"

After the National Championship, I'd closed things out with Kimberly too. Just let the contact fade naturally.

Last week I'd slept with a twenty-three-year-old woman I met by chance, but other than that, things had been quiet lately.

"There is one annoying one, though."

"Who?"

"Billie Eilish."

"...The singer?"

"Yup. After the National Championship she sent me a congratulations DM, we chatted a bit, and then she started sending these... weird photos. Herself getting a tattoo, or just coming out of the shower. Not nude — but honestly, uncomfortable to look at."

"May I see?"

I opened our DM thread and handed him my phone. Leigh Steinberg studied the screen for a moment.

Then said he'd handle it, and told me to block her.

Already done. I'd done exactly that yesterday.

After that, Steinberg went through my DM list.

"Olivia Rodrigo?"

"She reached out after breaking up with her boyfriend. We've traded a few DMs, but never met."

"Emma Chamberlain."

"Vegans aren't really my thing."

"Rachel Zegler."

"Not my type."

"Kiernan Shipka?"

"She just really likes Asian guys. Talked about BTS all day long — got exhausting, so I stopped."

He'd only named the ones worth knowing about, of course. There were far more DMs from far more girls.

My interest in that whole scene had cooled a bit lately, though. I was just letting it all drift like water under the bridge.

Surely someone else would catch my eye eventually. Or my body would get restless. One of the two.

Leigh Steinberg let out a small sigh, handed back my phone, and told me to stay as far away as possible from prostitutes and adult film actresses.

"Nothing else worth mentioning."

"Yes, sir."

The day's schedule was done, which meant it was time to part ways.

We said our goodbyes in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠front of the restaurant and got into our separate cars. We'd ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠meet up again somewhere when the ad campaign for Head & Shoulders — currently running nationwide — started losing steam.

Jimmy Fallon's Tonight Show, which had originally planned to invite me on, was waiting until studio tapings resumed to schedule anything. The Jimmy Kimmel Show, on the other hand, I'd boycotted outright.

That place had a serious history of discrimination against Asians.

My heritage — three-quarters Korean, one-quarter Samoan — is something enormously precious to me, something I'm proud of. I had no intention of doing business with anyone who had problems with that.

Truthfully, part of why Billie rubbed me the wrong way was that same territory.

I just didn't want to be treated disrespectfully. But she was already drinking the kimchi soup — jumping to conclusions about things that hadn't happened.

On the drive back to Athens, the roads were quiet. I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠liked that.